Major Bonnefoy
by NotSilentAnymore
Summary: Before the war between two empires ended in an unexpected way, Major Francis Bonnefoy, the Hero of Europa, saved Captain Arthur Kirkland, an enemy soldier. After the war ended, Kirkland was missing both his arms and Bonnefoy was mysteriously missing entirely. And Gilbert Beilschmidt? Just a prosthetics engineer whose client has a strange goal. (Human AU, mild Steampunk AU)


**Major Bonnefoy**

 **Chapter One: The Hero of Europa, Part I  
**

It was truly a terrible day when the war ended. Not because it ended, no, every citizen of Europa has been eagerly awaiting its end, more than any child awaits its birthday, but because it didn't end the way it should have. The people were hoping for a victory, of course, but they would have calmly accepted defeat as well, if it meant an end to the war.

And yet, the war did not end in victory, nor did it end in defeat. It ended in a revolution.

Perhaps there was no way for him to have forseen it. The revolution was primarily a product of the Eastern Territories, with its children seemingly emerging from the ground like rats, infesting every corner of the Continental Empire of Europa. Francis Bonnefoy, meanwhile, was a humble denizen of the countryside in the Central Territories, far more familiar with their hedges and green hills than with the endless plains of the east.

He first heard of the revolution after he'd become _Sergeant_ Francis Bonnefoy, with the hedges and green hills just a distant memory.

It was in the March of 1916, sometime before the Battle of Old Monarchs' Land. Truthfully, he can't recall much of the days leading up to the battle - all of his memories of the war were reduced to fog and the occasional flashes of gunfire - but he vaguely remembers complaining about the weather. The start of spring brought the troops rain instead of sunshine, turning the trenches into muddy canals. Francis was looking through a pair of binoculars, barely standing on the slippery concave in the trench's walls.

"See anything, Sergeant? Uh, Sergeant, sir?" came the raspy voice of the soldier on watch, owner of the binoculars. His name was Lisle or Liesl, Francis wasn't sure. He was a private, though, that he knew.

"Hmm. Except for the breathtaking scenery, no. Our dear friends on the other side seem to be resting." Francis adjusted the gears on the sides of the binoculars, bringing the opposite trench sharper into focus, just in case. He saw only the faint billowing of smoke, likely from the grenade Europa's troops launched there a few days before. There must have been quite a fire, if not even the previous night's rain had put it out.

"Or they might be preparing for something," said Private L. shakily, fiddling with his rifle.

"Oh, they might be, my dear, but I think it's more likely they're trying to flounder out of the mud," Francis said with a smile. Private L. reluctantly returned it. Francis was well aware that him addressing his subordinates with terms of endearment instead of by name and rank made a few of them uncomfortable, but he despised unnecessary formalities. Besides, now he had to keep it up because it had become his public image (and also because he was bad at connecting faces with names).

Private L. was clearly desperate for conversation, so he swallowed his discomfort and said: "If you say so, sir. So they're the same as us, huh?"

"Yes, this weather is just terrible for anybody." As if on cue, Francis' foot sank deeper into the mud, some of it getting into his boots. He made a disgusted sound, hurriedly climbed off the wall and handed the binoculars back to the Private.

"Keep up the good work, dear. I must take care of this now." As if for emphasis, Francis' boots made a squishing sound. Private L. looked put out, but gave a "Thank you, sir, I'll do my best" before Francis turned on his heel and left the front lines, remembering to tell a corporal to watch it in his stead.

He retreated into the main barracks for more suitable footwear. The main barracks were an unstable, hastily put together structure of wood and metal, burrowed into the foot of a hill and protected from enemy projectiles only by distance and a pathetically thin metal roof, but it was slightly elaveted off the ground and its floor was relatively clean, and that's all that mattered to Francis at that moment.

He smiled, whispered a greeting and saluted every person he passed by, from fellow commanding officers and superiors to accountants, while making his way to the storage room further back. Once there, he rummaged through the various spare pairs of boots in search of one without holes in the soles and tears in the leather. The boots he was wearing didn't go high enough and only their slowly decaying shoelaces bound them tight enough so as to not let any mud or water in. To no avail, unsurprisingly. Really, all of these "practical" army boots should at least have the deceny to actually fulfill their purporse in order to justify putting so-called functionality over style, thought Francis.

Just as he'd found a good, rather polished pair of knee high boots and was in the process of inspecting them for rats or cockroaches, another pair of boots clanging on the metal floor signalled the arrival of someone else. Before Francis could prepare to stand in case it's a superior officer, a handsome man with wiry brown hair and tan skin barged into the room and addressed him: "Sergeant Bonnefoy!"

Francis put down the boots, stood and nodded to the other officer (also a Sergeant, judging by his shoulder patches). He looked familiar, though he couldn't quite put a finger on why.

The officer smirked and, instead of saluting him, sauntered over to Francis and enthusiastically shook his hand.

"So it really is you! I mean, obviously I could have never confused you with someone else, your face is plastered on every corner in every town, but the paper pusher I asked where you were wasn't sure if he really saw you personally go into the dirty old storage room." The man spoke quickly and excitedly, making it difficult to catch up. An admirerer?

"Yes, I'm Bonnefoy, it is truly a pleasure, but ah, who might you be?" said Francis.

The other man blinked a few times. "You can't tell? Really? And to think every granny back home always said how we're so alike," he mumbled, before catching himself, seemingly being reminded of Francis' presence. "I'm Pedro, Antonio's brother," he said. Something clicked in Francis' head and suddenly, the resemblence was clear as day.

"Aah! Pedro Vargas! Sorry, I'd like to say I've heard a lot about you from Antonio, but I really haven't," Francis said, laughing along with Pedro.

"Hah, silly little Antonio seems to think speking my name will summon me to his doorstep. May I sit here?" He pointed to a small three-legged chair, similiar to the one Francis was sitting on moments ago.

"By all means," he said, sitting back onto his own chair. "If you don't mind me asking, what are you doing here? From what I understand, you've been hard at work fighting overseas since 1909. At least that's how Antonio explained your absence at the wedding."

"I wouldn't be surprised if he'd deliberately timed it so I couldn't get a leave and come embarrass him in front of Emma. Well, I ended up getting transferred to this front, so I visited my dear brother and his family on the way here. But the kids were too proud of 'uncle Hero of Europa' to care about a mere soldier," Pedro said, mock-hurt.

Francis involuntarily flinched, before arranging his face in a smile again, waving his hand in a shooing motion. "Oh, stop it, kids will be kids! They say the same of their grandpa, you know?"

"That's the thing! You're upstaging the great General Roma Vargas! Oh, to think a family of farmers could produce a man like you. Speaking of which, the reason I was looking for you was to give you this." Pedro rummaged through his coat pockets before procuring an impressively clean, given the state of everything else around them, white envelope. He handed it to Francis.

"It's from your sisters. And Antonio, and Feli and Lovi, too. The postal services around the front are kind of crap. Kept losing their letters to you, so the ladies asked me to deliver this personally."

Francis thanked him and inspected the fat envelope sealed with wask - _Monique's doing, so old fashioned_ \- taking a knife out of his belt pouch to open it. Several folded sheets of paper appeared in his view. He hesistated to pick one to read, his face falling momentarily, before remembering Pedro was still there.

"You don't mind if I read them here?" he asked. He's certain he won't be urgently needed on the front lines quite yet, the Britannians have been quiet for quite some time and he might not get another chance like this.

"Not at all, I won't look if that's what you're worried about. No, in fact, I'll go get us some food!" Before Francis could protest, Pedro stood up and left the room, closing the beat up door as best as he could. He seemed like a really nice person, Francis didn't understand why Antonio disliked him.

The first paper he pulled out, he recognised as being from Monique. Nobody else in his family used such perfect cursive, such expert penmanship (he's come close, if he does say so himself, though). The letter read:

 _Dearest brother,_

 _I hope our letters have reached you safely in Pedro's hands. I can't imagine what I'd do if he lost them, just like those postmen did. I understand they have a lot of letters to deliver to and from the front, but not hearing from you for so long has made all of us, especially poor Emma, lose sleep._

 _I thought her worry was silly at first, since surely news of something happening to the Hero of Europa would spread fast? But then I considered the possibility of the military covering up your injury or death to maintain the troops' morale. Needless to say, after that I became just as much of a worrywart as the biggest worrywart in our family. Rather embarrassing for me, don't you think?_

 _Our fears for your safety aside, we are doing fine. Well, to be more honest, as best as we can. We had to give up our quota of crops to the war effort. There are also rumours in town that rationing will start soon. I was there in hopes of getting lucky at the casino. I know you've told me not to make a habit of gambling, and certainly it might not be the best idea at times like these, but I found myself to be quite good at it - the gentlemen at the casino took to calling me "Queen of Hearts," in fact - and that brings more money and more food to the table._

 _We'll get through this and I hope you will, as well. Just don't fool around with the nurses too much, I'd hate to have even more little devils as nephews so soon. Be responsible, set an example for me. And for Europa, too._

 _With love, Monique._

"Silly Monique, you're just as much of a worrywart, always, why else would you come to such morbid conclusions?" Francis chuckled to himself. Monique was a very intelligent young lady, but if she kept making such observations, she could get in trouble. Well, more trouble than she already gets into. Francis shook his head with a warm, but exasperated smile.

The things Monique told him about the crops and possible rationing did trouble him, but he appreciated her honesty. She never was one to sugarcoat anything. How rude, though - he _always_ uses protection.

The next letter he pulled out had Emma's handwriting on it. It said:

 _Dear Francis,_

 _I am so, so sorry if you haven't recieved any of my numerous letters to you. As you'd probably heard, the postmen around here are damned idiots and cowards. Since we weren't getting any news from you, Antonio went over to the post office and demanded to telegraph the postal stations on the front to ask about the letters._

 _Turns out, some were lost in the sea of other letters, while others were never delivered in the first place! Can you imagine that some postmen went cycling around the Southern Territories instead of going to the front? Unbelievable! Such disrespect for brave soldiers like you and their families._

Francis had to stop reading for a moment. He felt as though someone was driving needles into his heart. He gripped the paper tighter and forced his eyes to travel further along the page.

 _Well, I've wasted enough ink on them. I'll talk about us now. I'm too forgetful to remember every detail I wrote in those letters so I won't be able to replicate them here, but in general, we are doing well. Antonio is working hard at Raquin's Metalworking now, to help the war effort. I'm worried about him. If he was deemed unsuited for the army, then why are they making him work such a dangerous job?_

 _I'm doing my best with the farm as well. I take most of the produce to town to be sold, but I'm keeping some in reserve in case something happens. Not that it will, mind you. As for the kids, they're behaving for the most part. They're always demanding to be told stories about their Hero of Europa, but since we never hear from you, Antonio and Angelique have to make up frankly outrageous tales about you. Feli hangs on every word, but Lovi thinks it's all a bunch of "made up crap." Goodness, who's teaching him such language?_

 _Ah, I have so much to say, but if I kept writing, this letter would never end. Please, please write back soon. We miss you._

 _Your beloved sister Emma_

 _P.S. The kids have a little something for you, too. Be sure to save it for last!_

"Ah, you haven't changed at all, Emma." This time, the smile on Francis's face was weaker, only there because of the mention of the kids. He quickly moved on to the next letter.

The one he pulled out was a crumpled piece of notebook paper and he instantly knew who it was from.

 _Dear Francis,_

 _I know you're kicking ass out there! That's why I'm not making as much of a fuss about the letters as the others back home. Really, everyone is always working and worrying these days, it gets tiring. I wish they could be like Feli and Lovi, they're always so lively!_

 _Not to say I'm not working hard, too. School is as much of a pain as usual, except now you're not here to help me with homework. But that's okay, because you're out there being a hero, which gives me plenty to brag about to my friends! It's so weird, everyone now knows me as "the Hero of Europa's sister." They even claim it's your genes (which I don't have, but whatever) that help me be so good at evacuation drills. Those are surprisingly fun, you know?_

 _Anyway, I can't wait for you to come visit so I can introduce you! Good luck out there!_

 _Your favourite sister Angelique._

Francis was frowning now. He shouldn't let such an uplifting letter bring him down. But hearing about this "Hero of Europa" again...

He shook his head and moved on to a small piece of paper, more of a note than a letter. The handwriting was familiar, but oddly uneven. It read:

 _Sorry for not writing much after all that trouble, my friend. I hurt my thumb at the factory I started working at (don't tell Emma). I hope you're okay. There was some noise in town, the men don't want to join you. Don't want to protect Europa from the Britannians. Said some horrible things about soldiers like you, and the generals. I don't understand how such cowards can be so horrible to good men. I'm like them, stuck working, but I'd give everything to fight alongside you. Just something you should know before you come back. Don't worry, though, war will be over before New Years and they'll calm down by then. - Antonio_

The note had a crudely drawn smiling tomato on the back. It did nothing to raise Francis' spirits. He had a sinking feeling he knew exactly what the men were saying.

He was snapped out of his reverie by the scraping sound of the door opening. Pedro was back with two cans of spaghetti and two forks.

"Sorry for taking so long, the other transfers made quite a crowd! You done reading?"

Francis smiled and accepted the can and fork offered to him, putting them aside for the moment. "Yes, I just need to see something Feli and Lovi sent me. I think it's fine if you see it, too."

"Oh, sure, thanks!" Pedro said and sat down on his chair again, scooting it closer to Francis, who pulled out the last folded paper from the envelope. Pedro leaned in as he unravelled it.

It was a poster of Francis leaning on a downed Britannian plane (which he had on one occasion managed to shoot out of the sky with an anti-aircraft cannon, after it was, admittedly, already damaged by one of their own pilots), rifle over his shoulder and cigarette in hand, beaming proudly at the viewer. Below the photograph, there were a few lines of text:

 _HERO OF EUROPA_

 _June 1915, Sergeant Francis Bonnefoy clipped a Britannian's wings. What about YOU?_

 _Support the Imperial Army of Europa. Hurry before the war's over, on New Years!_

 _(For more information, contact your local authorities.)_

Those kinds of posters were commonly seen on street corners and at train stations around Europa. They typically showed Francis impeccably dressed and in the middle of, or after, some heroic exploit (some of which he wasn't even personally responsible for). Francis himself honestly preferred the other kind of posters, with him doing something mundane with the populace. His favourite was the one of him giving bouqets of flowers to the girls working at a factory.

But there was something different about the poster he was holding. Namely, the black and white photograph was coloured over with crayons. Francis' uniform was given its characteristic navy blue hue, his boots were almost as shiny and black as they really used to be and long yellow locks of hair were drawn on his head (clearly, the kids weren't happy with the haircut the army gave him, either).

On the other hand, the plane's colours - blue, orange, green and purple - didn't match the colour scheme of the real thing (or each other, for that matter). But that is to be forgiven, as there's no way the little artists could have seen a Britannian plane in person (and hopefully, they never will).

The "New Years" part of the text was underlined with a red crayon, with "COME BAK SOON" written underneath. Francis felt a prickling at the corners of his eyes, but he couldn't stop smiling either.

"Wow, look at that! If Old Man Roma could see this now, he'd immediately start saving up money to send the brats to art school!" said Pedro, while opening his can of spaghetti.

"Ho ho, trust me, Feli is really talented, but Lovi's artistic skills are stuck at stick men, so that might not be a wise investment! At least not for the both of them. I think they decided to send a coloured poster instead of two drawings so Lovi wouldn't feel bad..."

"Aww, but they did a good job here, really. They coloured inside the lines, didn't they?"

Francis smiled wider and nodded. "Yes, they did." He folded the paper again, gathered the other letters and put them back inside the envelope. He hesistated with the note from Antonio, reading it over again and rubbing his thumb on it.

"Anything wrong?" asked Pedro, munching on the spaghetti, startling Francis a bit. He was silent before turning to face Pedro fully and showing him the writing on the note.

"Have you heard of anything like this?" he asked, pointing towards the lines where Antonio mentioned the noise in town.

Pedro peered at the note. "Hm. He didn't bother to tell _me_ this when I was at his house. Well, nevermind, I did hear about things like this."

Pedro put the can down on the floor, leaned in further and lowered his voice. Then, he continued: "This is also secondhand information, but some of the boys from the Western Territories got sent to the front further east from here a few months back. You know, before going there, they were ready to kick some Britannian ass and brought out the champagne when they heard about the transfer. But the next time I heard from some of them, they seemed more hostile towards their superiors than the enemy. And the others... Well, I never heard from them again."

Francis' face sombered. "So they fell in battle. I _have_ heard that the Eastern Front is absolutely brutal these days."

"Yeah, but it's because of the Britannians. They're the ones killing our good men, and yet the boys I heard from blamed the higher-ups. Must be the Eastern soldiers' influence."

Francis felt as if he could say something to the contrary, but he bit his tongue. Instead, he busied himself with untying his muddy boots and said: "Oh? The soldiers from the Eastern Territories?"

"Yeah. I heard they're highly insubordinate. And have you heard their little song? 'By New Years, by New Years, which New Years? All we see are slaughtered deers!' Nevermind that the 'war'll be over by New Years' parole is meant to raise their spirits. I swear, if I was General Rais, I would tape their mouths shut! And to say nothing of the epidemic of desertion..."

Francis flinched. "To be fair, they said war would be over by New Years last year and the year before that. I understand their frustration. That parole is the subject of mockery around here, too. I think the soldiers would appreciate it if it was replaced by something more general and realistic, like 'war will end'." He took off his boots and replaced his muddy socks as well, not looking at Pedro.

"Besides, I think they're just scared, not cruel. Please don't take this as an insult, my friend, but your faraway overseas battlefields are nothing like the Eastern Front and even _this_ front. You'll see, eventually. Not that it justifies their behaviour, of course, they _do_ need to understand the importance of sacrifice for Europa, for our families, but they're only human."

He was expecting Pedro to argue with him, but instead, he sighed. "I guess. But that's not the point. They're scared and angry, but they take it out on General Rais instead of who they should be, like, I don't know, Redcoat!"

Francis paused in putting on his new boots. He raised his eyebrows and asked: "Who?"

"Ah, you know, the Britannians' equivalent of _you_. I'm surprised you didn't know, he's making the Eastern Front absolute Hell, according to the boys. They call him Redcoat because he wears a red coat. Very creative, huh? I think his actual name's Kirkland or something."

Ah. That's right. March, 1916 is also when he first heard of Kirkland.

"Ah," said Francis, "I see. I really didn't know. He's on the Eastern Front, from what you said, so I guess his existance wasn't relevant to the officers and troops here." He coughed into his hand and finally put on the pair of boots he came to the storage room for. "Sorry, I didn't mean to discuss such grave things with you, when you've only come to deliver joyful news from back home."

"Hey, it's no problem, my friend! I was just doing what Toni and the others asked me to," said Pedro, accepting the change of topic. "Besides, now that I've done him a favour, Toni will _have_ to invite me to things! Oh, by the way, are you going to write back?"

Francis stopped laughing to answer: "Huh? Wouldn't my letters just get lost again?"

Pedro chuckled lowly. "They won't, I'll make sure of it. With my gun to the postmen's hea - "

There was a loud bang, followed by a tremor, then by the shrill sound of sirens. Francis and Pedro were still for a second, before jumping to their feet and running for the door, the two cans of spaghetti on the floor completely forgotten. They ran for the exit of the barracks, dodging other personnel, their boots clanging on the floor.

Once they were out and the sirens bacame quieter, Pedro yelled towards Francis: "An attack?! But we weren't even shown to our places!"

"You and the other transfers should be in the second row! That's the third trench from here! I'm on the front line, but we might have to switch eventually!" Another explosion shook Europa's side of the battlefield.

"Sir, yes, sir!" said Pedro with one last smile before they both ran through the narrow passageways between trenches. Francis gave a wordless goodbye after Pedro ducked into the second row trench, before marching towards his own.

* * *

The front line was bursting with noise and movement. Soldiers took their places, throwing themselves along the muddy walls, loading and cocking their rifles. Nobody was shooting yet, as it was only the beginning of the attack - the so-called "opening fireworks" - and if anyone dared peer over the walls to take a shot then, they would be dead before they could blink. But everyone was shouting, as if to drown out the terrible sound of the shells and bombs coming from the other side.

Medics also swarmed the trench, carrying off those already injured or dead in caskets of wood and cloth. They shouted codes Francis didn't understand to each other, in between yelling at everyone else to move out of the way. It was always so strange to him, how only during the times when Death brings its scythe down over their heads, the trench springs to life.

Francis found the corporal he'd left in charge. "By all the saints, what is going on?!"

"We are being attacked, sir. It's the opening fireworks," the corporal - Corporal Garçon, he remembered - said calmly, but loudly, to be heard over all the noise.

"I can see _that_! Why did nobody sound the alarm before the projectile hit? The cannon should have been visible from here! Where is the Private on watch?"

"Private Leisl? He said he needed you urgently and headed for the barracks, a minute or so before the attack began."

"Huh, is that so? I haven't run into him... Nevermind, nothing to be done about that, carry on as usual!"

"Yes, Sergeant, sir!"

Carrying on as usual meant waiting for the shelling to be over before bringing out their own cannons. If they could, the soldiers would start hurling back projectiles immediately, but the cannons - even the new, lighter models - were difficult to manuver and too slow to load. The Britannians would train all of their cannons and grenade launchers on them the moment their muzzles peeked over the top. (Which Francis would have also ordered done to _their_ cannons if he'd just seen them coming.) Still, it was always wise to get the cannons into position behind the appropriate spots along the walls, ready to be raised and loaded. Corporal Garçon left to see to that.

Francis was quiet as the shelling continued. He tried not to think about where the grenades fell or what the shells hit, or where and what they _will_ hit, and concentrated on merely counting their number. He closed his eyes and listened only for the loud 'bang's and 'boom's, ignoring all the other noise. One, two, three, four... No, add the ones before he'd started counting and it's about twenty-four... Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven...

He counted to sixty before a grenade exploded somewhere behind him, close enough for the mud to spray the inside of the trench and make his ears ring. By the time they'd stopped ringing, he probably missed at least twenty hits, so he continued counting at eighty.

He counted to four hundred and fifty-eight when the noise stopped. At first, he thought he might have gone deaf, but the tremors stopped as well. The "opening fireworks" were over. It was their turn.

Francis shouted his orders, or at least hoped he did - the words sounded distant, as if they hadn't come from his mouth. Luckily, it would seem he did, because the soldiers sprang into action, running or crawling to more suitable positions. Out of the corner of his eye, Francis saw one of the cannons being heaved up over the top a few meters away. The soldiers manning it brought the muzzle a bit lower towards the ground to make it harder to hit, just in case, and to give it a longer range. Then, they fired.

The sound of that first cannon was like a signal, the other cannons firing after it one after another like an endless cacophony of echoes. That horrible, horrible sound suddenly became like music to Francis' ears, clearing the fog in his head and sharpening his senses. He no longer felt the need to count the number of shots.

He had about five minutes before the cannonfire stops to inspect the damage done. These shellings used to last much longer with even more shells fired, though between longer intervals, but at some point that was deemed a waste of time and ammunition so the dominant tactic became "destroy as many enemies and weapons as possible in the span of a few minutes." There was also the Rais-Meyers Agreement...

Francis quickly searched his pockets for his trusted Pierre. He found it in the largest coat pocket, taking out the small brass device with silk wings. He turned the tiny winding key at the top of its head, opening its eye-like shutters, then the larger winding key on its back which made the mechanical bird come to life. It flew away with a repeated _click-click-click_ sound. Now, Francis had to wait for it to fly through the entire trench.

When it came back, it automatically stopped flapping its wings, falling into Francis' hands. He turned the small key counterclockwise and the bird's beak opened and started projecting images. Francis hurriedly dangled a dirty handkerchief in front of it to see them. He was aghast: the images, each lasting about 10 seconds before being replaced by the next, showed several demolished parts of the trenches, three destroyed cannons and - and a man with a hole in his stomach, almost buried in the mud. His midsection was like the mouth of a demon, sucking Francis' breath out of his lungs. The medics must have not bothered.

Francis started shaking. He should be used to this - he knows he should be used to this, but -

He took a deep breath, grit his teeth and stood up, hunching slightly. He still had information to gather.

He found Corporal Garçon again, by one of the cannons, and said: "Have you heard from the medics, dear? How many of them did they carry away? I... Couldn't see much."

"I'm not sure, we'll know after the battle, sir. But I think - if I may suggest, sir - that we may need a switch."

Francis thought of Pedro's cheerful chatter and felt his stomach turn. He almost argued, but he remembered his duties. He also remembered that wasn't his call to make. "Where is the Major? Or at least, the radio?"

"Major's still in the barracks. The radio is over there." Garçon pointed to a spot a few meters away from the cannon.

Francis made two steps towards the radio before it started crackling. He hurriedly picked up the reciever and answered: "Hello, this is Sergeant Bonnefoy on the frontline, at your service, over."

"This is Major Archambault. Received reports of a lack of manpower. Ordering a switch after ceasefire, over."

"May I request to remain, sir? Just me, not my squad, over."

A pause, filled only with the crackling of the radio and the ever present cannonfire. "In fact, yes. This might be a Rais-Meyers situation. Over and goodbye."

Francis was frozen for a few moments. He snapped out of the daze when the cannonfire suddenly stopped. He shouted to his men: "Switch!" He heard other sergeants do the same.

The soldiers who could stand left the frontline and were replaced by a swarm of unfamiliar faces. Francis bid Garçon goodbye while his eyes roamed the trench in search of Pedro. He felt a hand on his shoulder and jumped.

When he turned around, it was just the man he wanted to see. "Hey, Bonnefoy. You okay there?" said Pedro with a smile.

Francis smiled back. "Fine as I can be. And you, my friend?"

Pedro's smile fell a little and he looked to the side. "You were right, this isn't like what I'm used to. I was expecting more good old rifles and bayonets, you know?"

"Well, you're in luck - so to speak - because Major Archambault said this might be a Rais-Meyers."

"A what? Sorry, we weren't briefed, remember."

"Ah. Well, long story short, in some meeting in 1915 General Rais of Europa and General Meyers of Britannia both came to the conclusion that shelling and bombing trenches back and forth untill both sides are almost completely eradicated is a waste of time, ammunition and human life so they decided to limit the number of shellings and encourage close-range combat. To do this, they banned the interference of canons after one side goes over the top. The other side must then cease fire and also go over the top. The goal is to take over the opposite trench. This is called the Rais-Meyers agreement."

Pedro nodded slowly after every sentence. "Sounds more like what we're used to. Still, you sure they won't break the rules?"

"Yes. If they did, they'd be signing their own death warrants, not just ours." Suddenly, a loud horn sounded from the barracks. "That's the signal. Now, we wait for a" - another horn came from the other side - "response. Then, we go over the top." Francis raised his voice, for the other transfers to hear: "We're going over the top! On my whistle! One!"

Perhaps Francis wasn't _their_ commanding officer, or the only officer present, but he spoke with authority and confidence, which made soldiers listen almost automatically. They put one foot on the wall, rifles, with bayonets attached, in hand.

"Two!"

Perhaps Francis' greatest secret was that he wasn't what they say he is. But in times like these, it's important for him to pretend he is.

"Three!"

Francis Bonnefoy, Hero of Europa, went over the top.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

I was planning to get Francis' introduction, including the battle, done in one chapter but it got too long. Now it will take four chapters to get to the actual plot instead of three. Full disclosure, I have an outline for this story, but otherwise I'm improvising. Please bear with me!

Also, in case it wasn't clear, in this universe, Antonio and Pedro (Portugal) are the sons of Roma Vargas (Rome) and therefore their surname is Vargas. Emma (Belgium), Monique (Monaco), Angelique (Seychelles, adopted) and Francis are the Bonnefoys. Emma married Antonio and had Feliciano and Lovino. Everyone else who you don't recognise is probably an OC.

Also also, the warfare shown in this fic is not meant to follow real events or tactics, even if it's inspired by WWI. As for what the deal with Europa and Britannia is, you'll see

Thank you for reading!


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